


The Red-Handed League

by Flangst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adaptation, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Shy Sherlock, Slow Build, Story: The Adventure of the Red-Headed League, john is good to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flangst/pseuds/Flangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits across from me and sips his tea with a little hum of contentment. I try not to be too conspicuous in my examination of him. The way the sunlight picks up the gold in his hair and makes his head almost glow. The way the fabric of his jeans creases under his knees. The way he sits, his posture; the angle between his open legs and the way he plants his feet on the floor. Solid, comfortable, relaxed. We gravitate towards each other; find equilibrium in each other’s presence. I wish I knew if he loved me the way I love him. I sometimes think he does, but to act on assumptions and be rejected would kill me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Prologue_

This case began, as so many do, in 221B. After all, we can’t have a story about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson without our main pair, can we? No. At this particular time and place it was a cool October morning, brisk but not bitingly cold, and the sun was splashing gold onto the walls of the flat and Sherlock and John were talking. Now this was hardly out of the ordinary, as they did live together and were quite fond of one another. And when I say fond, I do mean… very very fond. Anyone who’d spoken to them for more than five minutes could tell. Unfortunately, it seemed that the only two who couldn’t were John and Sherlock themselves. Love was funny that way.

John was boiling water for their morning tea and had two pieces of toast ready to be buttered. Since they weren’t on a case, this meant he could actually get Sherlock to eat without a fuss. He’d missed this comfortable companionship terribly in those lonely years when Sherlock had disappeared, and then after that when he’d been married. But that was all water under the bridge, as they said. He was back at 221B to stay, back where he knew, deep down, he truly belonged.

He looked over, smiled. Sherlock was standing by the window, violin and bow in hand but not playing, watching the streets with faint interest. He made John’s heart ache sometimes. Did he know that? Probably. He hoped so. Sherlock, like he knew John’s eyes were on him, turned and caught his gaze. He smiled that way that was only reserved for John. He could pretend that Sherlock loved him in moments like this. Though sometimes it didn’t feel like pretending (the wedding, Magnusson, the tarmac, the way he stayed at John’s side during his separation).

The water began to boil and John switched off the kettle, grabbing two mugs (his RAMC mug, a bit chipped but still serviceable and the bee one that Sherlock inexplicably loved so much)

*

On another side of town, on Aldersgate Street, a man was locking up his pawnshop for the morning. The slightly faded sign dully reflected bright sunlight (Second To None, it was called, had been his brother’s idea) and the piles of knickknacks and treasures could be picked out through the dusty windows. The man locking up and setting off at a trundling pace down the road was Jabez Wilson, who’d owned the shop since the early 80’s. His fiery red hair (lightly streaked with grey at the temples) gleamed in the sunlight like a torch as he made for the Tube station.

Another man stood in the alleyway between his shop and the bank next door, leaning against it with the cocky ease of a city youth sneaking a cigarette. He watched until Wilson had disappeared around the corner, and then turned, walking back until he was standing behind the pawnshop. Next door, a heavily armored truck was pulling in. He knew what was in that truck, and if they could get ahold of it, he and his partner would be set for life. As the truck began unloading, he pulled out a battered Android phone and typed a quick message. Hitting send, he turned on his heel and walked away, joining the crowd of Londoners beginning to fill the pavement.

Exiting the Tube at Fleet Street, Wilson hurried—meaning he waddled a little faster—towards an older office building on the corner. Inside, he took the elevator to the second floor. He’d done this every morning (except on Sundays) for the past two weeks. When he got to the door he was seeking, however, he stopped. He looked again, squinting, and what he saw made him back up, confused.

_Starting today, the Red-Haired League is disbanded. Dated October 9_

_Opening credits begin…._


	2. Abbot to Attica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My fingertips brush the callused knuckles of his right hand and my stomach trembles like a hive of bees have been unleashed inside. Heart skips a beat (first time this happened I thought I might be dying or at least very ill)

John is making tea. He doesn’t always make it but on mornings where he and I both get up early he likes to. And I enjoy watching him. Amended: I  _always_ enjoy watching John. He fascinates me. Everything he does fascinates me (is that obsession? How do you make the distinction between adoration and obsession? I  _adore_ John). Sometimes I get up early just to spend more time with him before he goes to work.

He carefully pours two mugs (his RAMC and my  _Apis_  mug) and adds two spoonful’s of sugar to mine (John’s tea tastes the best, I’ve decided. Because he makes it? Unsure. Probably) and hands it over. My fingertips brush the callused knuckles of his right hand and my stomach trembles like a hive of bees have been unleashed inside. Heart skips a beat (first time this happened I thought I might be dying or at least very ill). I inhale sharply and take the mug, willing my fingers not to shake. My relationship with the physical symptoms of love is paradoxical; I hate the way they distract me but I love being near John. I need to be near John.

“Thank you,” I say, blowing gently at the steam.  _I love you,_ I mean. I mean it in everything I say to him.

“Welcome.” He sits across from me and sips his tea with a little hum of contentment. I try not to be too conspicuous in my examination of him. The way the sunlight picks up the gold in his hair and makes his head almost glow. The way the fabric of his jeans creases under his knees. The way he sits, his posture; the angle between his open legs and the way he plants his feet on the floor. Solid, comfortable, relaxed. We gravitate towards each other; find equilibrium in each other’s presence. I wish I knew if he loved me the way I love him. I sometimes think he does, but to act on assumptions and be rejected would kill me.

He catches me watching (doesn’t seem to affect him as much as it used to. He seems more comfortable of it, expecting, maybe). Smiles at me, cocks his head (makes me catch my breath).

“What?” he asks. “Something on my face?”

I feel myself start to blush; raise the mug and take a sip to cover my embarrassment. “No, you look fine. As always.” (Wish I take back that last sentence; I feel like an idiot)

John raises an eyebrow, looking surprised but not displeased. Opens his mouth to say something—

“Hoo hoo! Boys? You’ve got a client.” The tapping of Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps up the stairs and her knock on the door makes John shut his mouth. I sigh, curse her timing, and set my tea down.

“Send them in.”

An overweight red haired man enters and I direct him to the client chair, already scanning him. Checked grey trousers (too small), a black shirt with fake brass buttons, woolen overcoat (brown), an expensive watch buckled around his thick wrist. Besides that, he’s done a great deal of manual labor at some point in his life (prominent blue veins around his right hand), is a smoker (I’d know the signs anywhere), a Freemason (obvious) and has traveled to China, possibly more than once (a five jiao piece hanging from a cord around his neck). Look at the sleeves of his shirt (creased sharply by the wrist; he’s done a great deal of typing or writing recently).

“My name is Jabez Wilson, Mr. Holmes,” he says, shaking my hand. “I came over as soon as… well, I’ll have to explain.”

He removes a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, smooth’s it out and hands it over. I read over it briefly, feeling my mouth twitch in derision. It’s an ad for some kind of philanthropic league that calls itself the “Red Haired League,” looking for new recruits. My eyes dart to Wilson’s auburn hair. Obvious. I hand it back.

“From your hands, Mr. Wilson, I can reasonably deduce that you worked in a field requiring heavy manual labor at some point, but no longer. Based on your clothing, I can assume it’s a steady income, but certainly not enough for you to consider yourself wealthy. You were looking for a supplemental income—,” I gesture to the paper, “—but something happened and you’ve come to me looking for answers.” I smirk a little as the man’s eyes widen.

“My God, they said you were the best, but…” He shakes his head. “What else can you tell about me?”

“You’re a smoker—obvious, that one, a Freemason, you have a pin on your lapel; you’ve traveled out of the country multiple times, most likely to China if your necklace and the tattoo on your wrist is any indication. Speaking of your wrists, your sleeves are deeply creased, so you’ve been typing a great deal in the past few days. Have I missed anything of importance?”

Wilson gapes for a moment, and I can practically hear John smirking behind me (try not to preen too much).

“No, that was—absolutely accurate, yes. Incredible. I read Dr. Watson’s blog, but seeing it in real life is something else.”

“Obvious, really.” I try not to think about what John writes about me on the blog (have read it) and work to control my transport so my pleasure is not too evident. “Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Ah, yes. Well. You are absolutely right, I was an apprentice carpenter when I was younger but my brother and I opened a pawnshop,  _Second to None,_ when I turned 30 and I run it by myself now that he’s passed away. The ad was sent to me through my email and when I went to Fleet Street to apply, they said they’d had hundreds of applicants but I the only one who’s hair color matched what they were looking for.”

John turns at me, eyebrows flying up to his hairline. I know the expression well (know all his looks intimately).  _Don’t say a word,_ I tell him silently. He almost smiles and looks back at Jabez Wilson.

“Well the man there, Douglas Berkley—he ran that branch of the league—informed me they needed some nominal work done—“

“Nominal work?” I interrupt. “Such as?”

“Well—it’s a bit silly… “

“Try me.”

“Well, they gave me a list of entries they wanted me to paraphrase from Wikipedia—um, all starting with ‘a,’ you know, abbot, apples, attica, so on… and the pay was £400 a week, in the mornings so it wouldn’t interfere with my hours at the pawnshop, you know, so I thought, well, why not.”

John makes a noise that he turns into a cough, but I know he’s desperately trying to cover up his own laughter. I feel a smile of my own trying to form and press my lips together (client probably wouldn’t appreciate us laughing in his face).

“So for the past few weeks I’ve been going into the office for a few hours every morning and doing this work for them, but I went in this morning and there was a note on the door that said the League had been disbanded. I talked with the landlord, and he gave me the forwarding address, but that just got me to a chiropractor’s office the next street over. Nothing else to go on, so I came to you.”

That does it for John. He bursts out giggling, and his laughter is infectious, so help me. Wilson looks less than pleased at the sight of us laughing at him (can see his hand tensing on the chair, move to intercept him before he leaves. Harry Knight was so similar, I think).

“No, Mr. Wilson, terribly, sorry, um,” I clear my throat, rearrange my facial features. “No, I’d be happy to take this case on for you.”

John’s sharp glance. “You  _would?_ ”

“Of course, John, it’s the most interesting one we’ve had for months.”

Wilson sinks back onto the chair, relieved. “Oh, thank you so much. Now, ah, I have the address of my shop written down here, if you’d like to talk to my assistant, Vincent Spaulding. Tall, skinny fellow, dark hair, like yourself, Mr. Holmes—“ (I try not to roll my eyes, it’s a stupendous effort) “He knows all about this, maybe it’ll help.”

“Yes, thank you.” I snatch the paper from him and stuff it into my trouser pocket. “Clearly, Mr. Wilson, you’ve been the victim of a scam and you need me to find those responsible to reimburse you for your £400 a week.”

“Y-yes.”

“Very well.”

After he leaves, John gets to his feet, scratching his neck. I take a moment to admire the curve of his neck, the way the tendons stand out and muscles flex.

“So, you’re really taking this? I mean you said so yourself, he’s the victim of a scam.”

“Yes, but it’s the most fascinating scam I’ve ever come across, it would be a waste to ignore it. Come on, John, we’re going to 91 Aldersgate Street!”

John is smiling at me. Not sure why (amused? Though the expression doesn’t quite read as amused. No—fond) or what prompted it but it makes a little explosion of warmth go off somewhere in my thoracic cavity. This is becoming unbearable, and I’m on a case now (focus!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set!


	3. Hollow Floors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel him lay his hand on the gap between my scapulae. In the spirit of every cliché love story, it sends a shiver down my spine like he was connected to every nerve in my body (he is). Feel my stomach drop into free-fall.

On the cab ride over to Aldersgate Street, I review the facts (not many, but the few I do have are pretty self evident). Wilson is the victim of a scam (obvious), but whoever is perpetrating the scam isn’t looking to steal his money (also obvious). His assistant, Spaulding, was on duty when Wilson was working for the Red Haired League, therefore it’s reasonable to assume that he’s a part of it as well. Furthermore, it’s clear that Wilson is an idiot (how dull. How typical) so it’s entirely possible that’s his missed some very obvious clues. Glance over at John (has become a reflex to check on him). He’s leaning his chin on his hand, mind clearly elsewhere, staring at nothing in particular. I hope he isn’t distracted while we’re working (hope I’m not either).

Wilson’s shop is small but has a sort of old-fashioned quality to it (“quaint,” I would say if I was in the habit of using such words). There’s an old branch of City and Suburban Bank sitting to its right (interesting), and a row of apartments to its left (unimportant). Inside: cramped, dusty, filled with the sort of useless junk people love to fill their homes with (find this habit simultaneously fascinating and baffling; if you’re going to clutter up your home, what’s the point of doing it with useless objects?). Vincent Spaulding is managing the cash register being a small desk in the back. Behind him, a door probably leading to a stock room. John peruses the merchandise while I speak to Spaulding.

“Yeah, I’ve been working for Mr. Wilson about three months now,” he explains, drumming his fingers on the counter. As he speaks, I look him over. Tall, thin and dark-haired like Wilson described but there’s a great deal he left out. Spaulding has a scar on his left index finger (knife?) and ink on his right one (color of the stains matches the ink of the fountain pen he’s using). Has a small pair of reading glasses that he takes off and wipes on his shirt a lot. Most interesting: the knees of his trousers are faded and very dusty, like he’s spent long periods of time kneeling. If I was able to, would probably find all sorts of interesting samples pressed into the fabric of his trousers.

“And in all this time, you never noticed anything suspicious? No… unusual comings and goings in the store, no odd changes to the business bank account?”

He shakes his head. “No sir. Just the usual. People come in, sometimes they buy, sometimes they just look. I check the bank accounts every afternoon at the end of my shift, nothing weird there either.”

“I see.” He’s hiding something. I glance over to John, who’s idling over by a set of hideous neoclassical statuary (nude males. Meaningful? Probably not). As he bends down, his jacket momentarily slides up his back and I get a glimpse of naked skin and the faint glint of golden hair. Feel my breath stutter (try to hold off the other signs of arousal. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen). So distracted that it actually startles me when John accidentally knocks one of the statues onto the floor.

“Oh—God—I’m sorry, here, let me—“ He pulls it upright, checking it over as Spaulding hurries over.

“No harm done! They’re stone,” he chuckles. When he shifts the statue back over, I hear it again—a hollow thud. Interesting.

John clearly notices it too. He stamps his foot on the floor tiles, and looks up at Spaulding. “Is there a basement under here?”

Spaulding smiles. “No, actually old tunnels. Aldersgate and the surrounding neighborhoods all have these tunnels running underneath them from, you know, the 1800’s or whatever, and then during WWII they turned into bomb shelters. They’ve collapsed now, mostly. No danger of the buildings coming down, of course, they’ve been fortified. But you can’t go down into them anymore.” Gotcha.

That tells me everything I need to know. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Spaulding. You’ve been very helpful.”

He looks momentarily surprised but swiftly covers it up. “Yeah, of course! Glad I could help, Mr. Holmes. I hope you can stuff cleared up for Mr. Wilson. He’s a nice guy.” (Laying it on thick, this one. I wonder exactly how he fits into all of this)

I resist rolling my eyes until we exit the pawnshop. John notices and sticks out his bottom lip, looking thoughtful (cannot say how many times I’ve pictured John’s mouth in my mind. How much I’ve considered how the contours of his lips would fit against my own. This is becoming intolerable) and then glances at me.

“You think he was lying, then?”

“Mm. I know he was, John. Lies always have little unnecessary additions in them, details, things the liar believes makes their story all the more plausible.”

“Alright, then, what was he lying about?”

“The tunnels, John, didn’t you notice?”

“Wh—so, there are no tunnels? Cause there’s definitely something down there.” Oh, John. So close, but you have so much to learn.

“No, I’m quite certain there are tunnels—I’ll double check later, no, I think he was lying about them having been collapsed. The knees of his work pants. Covered in grit, like he’s been kneeling in dirt for considerable amounts of time. Old tunnels would have plenty of loose grit in them. Not 100%, of course, but I’ve got a theory.”

“Yeah, but, he was down in the tunnels, so what, how does that make him suspicious?”

“John.” I shake my head. “You really should be more observant by now. What did you notice on the street?”

“Um—I mean, the store, the houses, buildings, the walkway… what should I have been looking for?”

I withdraw from my pocket a scrap of paper that I’ve swiped from Spaulding’s desk while he was distracted with John’s statue. He’s scribbled on it with the fountain pen, probably testing the ink. “I’ve got one more theory to test, and then I’ll show you.”

John rolls his eyes and chuckles. I walk just a little more confidently (love his laugh. Want to make him laugh every day for the rest of my life if I could hear that sound again). We take a taxi to Fleet Street and get off at the address of Wilson’s phony League. It’s nothing of note, just a three-storied boxy office building with a number of business signs out front.

On the door Wilson mentioned the sign is still there, happily, and even better, handwritten. “Excellent!” I tear it off the door and carefully fold it up.

“We’re not going to have a look in the office, then?” pipes up John. He sounds a bit annoyed (bored?)

“Don’t need to,” I reply, striding back towards the stairs. “This is all I needed. The office is just a distraction. The real crime is happening on Aldersgate Street.”

“Happening, present tense?”

“Yes. Spaulding’s trousers, remember? That dirt is fresh.”

“How do you know it’s from the tunnels? Could be from on the streets for all we know.”

I throw him a smug little smile. “But it isn’t. I’ll show you why when we get back to Aldersgate.”

Our next stop is St. Bart’s, and luckily Molly’s just gotten off her lunch break. She’s pleased to see us (the element of fawning devotion has faded in the last few months, thankfully. She seems happier as well. Has put on two?—no, three pounds in the last few months. Domestic bliss? She broke off her engagement ages ago). Comparing the two samples under the microscope, I’m pleased to have my theory thoroughly cemented—the same ink on both pieces of paper (handwriting seemed similar but had to be sure).

“Hah!” I crow in triumph. “Oh, Mr. Spaulding, you must be new to this.”

“What?” John peers over my shoulder.

“The types of ink match. Spaulding’s definitely in on this. He’s probably got an accomplice.”

“Any idea who?”

“Well, Wilson did mention something about the ‘head’ of the branch of the League? Probably he—“ Turn my head, caught up in the triumph of it all, and feel the air rush from my lungs with force, the words dying on my lips. John’s face is far too close to mine, close enough that I can pick out the individual shades of his irises (never noticed so many varieties of blue in them before). He swallows and blinks but doesn’t move back (I cannot move at all, can only sit there staring helplessly at him while my heart attempts to destroy my rib cage) and I feel him lay his hand on the gap between my scapulae. In the spirit of every cliché love story, it sends a shiver down my spine like he was connected to every nerve in my body (he is). Feel my stomach drop into free-fall.

“Brilliant,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving mine. I’m not entirely sure he’s talking about the case anymore.

A phone pings and the spell is broken. John straightens up and I try desperately to collect my rampant thoughts (the evidence of them screamingly obvious in the flush of heat over my face and the way my hands tremble as I retrieve the samples). Molly’s phone beeps again and she retrieves it, smiling when she reads the text.

“Sorry Sherlock, hope I didn’t distract you. Find what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” I reply shortly, pulling on my coat. “Thank you, Molly.” (Have been trying to be more appreciative of her, in some misplaced attempt to atone for the way I used to treat her. It seems to make John happy too)

“Is that Greg?” asked John noncommittally. (I search him for signs of discomfort, arousal, some indication of what just happened. His hands clench by his sides. Why? Is he regretting it? Then what he just said filters through)

“Hmm? Oh yeah, he was asking where I wanted to go for dinner.”

Dinner? Suddenly Molly’s weight gain and generally cheery demeanor are making sense.

“Is it getting serious, you two?” John grins conspiratorially. (I roll my eyes; you’re not one of her airheaded girlfriends, John, honestly)

Molly blushes. “Well, kinda… yeah… I mean I don’t want to rush things, obviously but…”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure he’s one of a kind, hopefully a little more so than your last attempt at a romantic relationship,” I snap, immediately feeling slightly regretful as two annoyed faces turn my way. I gather this is old news, then.

“It’s Greg Lestrade, Sherlock,” sighs John. Oh. Oh.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, we’ve been dating for four months now,” says Molly, perhaps a bit smugly. (Probably had heard her mention it and filtered. I filter a lot of her nattering)

I process this. Somehow… somehow this makes sense. Will have to ask Lestrade later. For now, Aldersgate Street awaits. I have a hunch about those tunnels that needs testing.

There’s no time for sentiment now, whether mine or someone else’s.


	4. Long Walks and Short Drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stops and just studies my face (looking for what? Confirmation? Acceptance?) and I think, fleetingly, that we are in the middle of a case and really shouldn’t be doing this.

Returning to Aldersgate, John and I forgo returning to the pawnshop to instead check out the City and Suburban Bank next door. The bank was established around 1903, and remains exclusive to London, with four branches still in operation (plan to delete this information as soon as possible, few things are quite as boring as finances). The clientele; the well-to-do, though not the obscenely rich. Not everyone here has an offshore bank account. Inside, black and white checkered floors, marble pillars, high vaulted ceilings and brass bars. The 21st century is making itself apparent as well (spot the black bubbles of security cameras, the ATM machines, the armed security guards). Clearly they have a blind spot; I just have to find it and this case will practically be wrapped up. Very different from Sebastian Wilkes’, bank (would I find young bankers smuggling goods here too?).  
John whistles admiringly behind me, I glance over to see him turning a slow circle on the floor, impressed by the opulence (not part of a wealthy income bracket as a child. Deduced this within days of knowing him)

“They’ve replaced most of the pillars, John, you don’t need to look so impressed.”

“Still. Don’t think I could even afford to bank at a place like this.”

“Well, that may be for the best in this case.” I approach one of the tellers, automatically taking up the persona of a young, harried, eager businessman. Most people react better to me when I am not myself (knowledge causes a small pang in my chest. Ignore it. John likes me as myself, and it’s his opinion I value most anyways)

“Hi.” I flash her a brief smile and then cast a significant glance down to my phone. Just another young business mogul. “I was thinking about banking here, and I was wondering about some stuff.”

She leans forward, eager to assist (new employee. Haircut; recent. Nails; painted but not in a salon. Attire; professional but not expensive. Hasn’t had time to work her way up the corporate ladder)

A few minutes later I’ve learned all the cursory information I need. Spin on my heel and stride out of the building, John at my heels (I’ve become acclimated to his steady presence at my shoulder. It makes me feel more anchored in the world, somehow)

“That’s it?” he asks, jogging to catch up with me. I automatically slow my stride. “I thought you had a theory about the alleyway.”

“I do. I needed to find out a few things about the bank first.”

“Like what?”

I give him a small grin. “How they store their valuables, how good their security is, things any wise potential customer would ask.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifts a bit; the not-smile he does when I’m being cheeky (he finds it charming but fears accidentally promoting bad behavior. It’s rather sweet). “Well I’ve never asked. Did you ask if they have hidden tunnels?”

“Don’t need to. See?” Around the corner, in the dank alleyway between bank and pawnshop, our shoes echo hollowly on the old cobblestones. John’s eyebrows lift; he bends down to tap a piece of loose brick on the ground. Definitely hollow under our feet. The tunnels are still there.

“So the tunnels are under the bank as well?”

I don’t dignify such a redundant question with an answer. Obviously they are, John, or we wouldn’t be here.

“So?” He stands, joints in his knees cracking sharply with the movement (limp bothering him again? He isn’t walking with any apparent difficulty. Will have to ask later)

“So there are tunnels between the bank… and the pawnshop. And presumably all over this street. Jabez Wilson has been away from his pawnshop for weeks now, and his assistant has fresh dirt and grit embedded into the knees of his trousers. What can you deduce from this, John?”

John sighs. Frustrated (Why? Me? Review the last several hours to see if I’ve done something offensive. Nothing stands out). “His assistant’s been down in the tunnels, spending a lot of time kneeling… digging into the bank, maybe?” Deductions make him self-conscious. Can see him prepare himself for the embarrassment of being wrong.

“More or less,” I reply. “Of course, the bank is also housing an incredibly valuable shipment of gold that just came in yesterday, and they house all their physical valuables underground—they think they’re safe down there but obviously there’s a flaw somewhere in their foundations or the thieves would be finding another way in.”

John frowns, uncrossing his arms. “So they’ve already stolen something?”

“Not yet. We’d have heard. No, I imagine they’re planning to very soon. Most likely the gold. Spaulding and whomever he’s working with are now aware that Wilson is suspicious. People who are worried about getting caught tend to act prematurely. I hope you’re not busy tonight.”

“Nope. What have you got in mind?”

I smile. “You’ll see.” Already the anticipation of solving this is buzzing in my mind. There’s not much I can do until I have access to the bank blueprints and have contacted Lestrade, though. I clasp my hands behind my back. “Hungry?”

“Me? Yeah, very.” Ah, that may account for his crankiness. He didn’t have much breakfast (though I may not need to eat as much as he, I do like to make sure he eats. I need to take care of my blogger, after all).

There’s a sandwich shop on the corner, and John orders while I find a table. Doubtless he will try to persuade me to eat a bit of food; he always does this, regardless of how often I’ve told him I don’t eat on cases. It’s become almost a ritual between us: he offers the food fully aware that I will refuse it. Sometimes I do eat, just to ease his worry (his concern is touching where once I found it irritating. I like when he fusses over me). I type a short message to Lestrade.

Cancel your date tonight. I need your help with something. SH

Before sending, I pause. Canceling his date with Molly might be a bit not good. Might come across as selfish. John wouldn’t approve. Delete, delete.

Reschedule your date tonight. I need help with something. SH

Send. There. Now everyone’s happy. I nearly roll my eyes. John returns with a halved sandwich and a small cup of tomato soup (for me). Lestrade texts back.

What is it? How do you know I have a date?

I smirk, prepare a reply. Unimportant. The City and Suburban Aldersgate Street branch is going to be robbed, probably tonight. Need your help. SH

Also need blueprints of the bank. SH

That should pique his interest. Though theoretically John and I could handle this alone, it would be safer to have some police backup since not all variables have been confirmed. Lestrade is still the only officer I can reasonably tolerate.

“Sherlock.” John wipes a bit of lettuce off his lower lip and continues, “Are you going to fill me in? What exactly we’ll be doing later then?”

My phone buzzes but I ignore it in favor of answering John. “There’s going to be an attempt to rob the bank tonight. We’re going to stake it out with Lestrade and catch them in action. It’ll be the most efficient way to wrap this up.”

“Ah. Ok.” He tilts his head, considering. “Doesn’t Greg have a date with Molly tonight though?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “He can reschedule. Anyways—“

“Sherlock.” John gives me a Look. Uh oh. I’ve done something Not Good. “You can’t wreck everyone’s dating lives for cases. It’s not fair to Molly if Lestrade has to cancel on her.”

I scowl, feeling a bubble of hurt well up. I don’t ruin peoples’ dating lives (if anything I’m usually doing them a favor, people tend to gravitate towards the least compatible partners in my experience). John having terrible taste in certainly women isn’t my fault. His girlfriends weren’t adaptable to our lifestyle, and that’s all there was too it. Mary was a little different—she certainly embraced the lifestyle, but in all the wrong ways (Don’t think about Mary. Water under the bridge, that. It’s over. A twinge in my chest. Phantom pain from the bullet scar?).

“There’s plenty of time for them to eat dinner before he has to help us, John. That’s hardly wrecking their dating lives.” I check my phone. Lestrade’s replied: Fine. Let me see what I can do about the blueprints. Shall I meet you at Baker Street tonight then? Say 9?

Eight-thirty will be fine. SH

I look back up, still feeling righteously indignant. John looks a bit remorseful. “Sorry, Sherlock, that was mean. You don’t wreck everyone’s dating lives.”

I shrug. Fiddle with the lid of the soup cup.

“Did I ruin yours?” Not a question I meant to ask. Far too personal (can I make my feelings for him any more obvious? It sounds petty, jealous). I feel my cheeks burn and attempt to amend it. “I mean—"

“No.” He picks at the crust of his sandwich, looking discomfited. His mouth forms a flat line. “I—no. I mean, yeah. You did, sort of. Sometimes. But honestly—it was—I just wasn’t—I was a lousy boyfriend, to be honest.” He lets out a breath. Definitely uncomfortable.

I lean forward a bit, resting my elbows on the table. Far too curious about this for my own good but there is something bizarrely satisfying about hearing of John’s misadventures with women.

“And you know, I pretty much stopped dating after—well.” He blushes suddenly and closes his mouth. Interesting (Attractive when he blushes). “I mean, I didn’t try again until after you—until I met Mary. And that—well look how that turned out.” Oh, I did, John. I was there. In a perverse, awful way, Mary did me a favor: she returned John to me (to what end? So I could repair his broken heart? Tape it back together, take him into my arms and hope that he loves me for it? Don’t be stupid. I have no more skill in a romantic relationship than John does playing the violin). I immediately feel guilty for the thought and an uncomfortable silence falls.

“Eat your soup,” he says finally, gesturing. I heave an annoyed sigh—digestion will just slow down my thinking process—but I do as he says. It’s gone cold. I tire of this constant tiptoeing we do around each other—John seems more relaxed around me than he ever was before and I still can’t determine what it is he feels for me exactly. As for myself, I can’t tell him. I can’t face his rejection, however gently he might deliver it, because John is everything to me and if he knows how I feel I could destroy this thing we have. He would grow uncomfortable around me, retreating behind his walls of firmly established heterosexuality. He might start dating again. He might meet someone and—no. Better he doesn’t know, than I lose him again. He knows I care about him. Maybe I’ll figure out how to explain how I feel but for now… I force the thoughts from my mind; I’m on a case, time to actually think about the damned thing.

Consider the facts: Spaulding is involved. Wilson is back in the shop for his afternoon/evening shift so he won’t make a move until tonight, after closing time. There is a tunnel underneath the bank that has gone unnoticed in all their renovations and updates. The tunnel most likely connects to the pawnshop or very near it—possibly underneath the floor of the storeroom? (Likely. Only employees are permitted back there and Spaulding is Wilson’s only employee. It would be easy enough to hide the evidence of shifted tiles and damaged floors from one man).

We return to Baker Street and I make a beeline for John’s laptop (mine is in my room. Too far). Open it, hack the laughably easy password, log into my email. Pleased to see an email from Lestrade. There are perks of having allies in the law. He’s sent blueprints of the bank, the main floor and the basement levels where many of their vaults are.  
“Sherlock, I need—oh, what is that?” John leans down beside me to look (feel the heat from his body. Hope this won’t be a repeat of the morgue).

“Blueprints.” I scroll through the basement plans. There’s no indication of the tunnels there. The vaults were constructed with fortified walls and doors but perhaps… ah, yes. There’s a small side hallway. No vaults. No doors. This could be it. Mentally I align it with the cardinal directions. Yes, it even lies adjacent to Wilson’s pawnshop (our best bet. Hope it hasn’t been walled off since the bank was renovated). “Excellent.”

“What? Looks pretty secure to me.”

“Not there. Check the date of the blueprints; these renovations are only six years old. That one little alcove must have been there for hundreds of years. They haven’t bothered to reinforce it because they didn’t build a vault there.”

“So you’re saying… that’s how they’re going to get in?”

“Precisely, John.” I click out of my email and close the laptop.

“That’s…” John hesitates. “That seems like a massive security oversight.”

“Well, who would bother using the tunnels? Seems like a rather strange method of robbing a bank when there are far more modern methods. No one would expect it in this day and age.” I stand, make my way to my violin. There’s little else we can do in the three hours and 24 minutes until I asked Lestrade to meet us. I begin to rosin my bow, conscious of John’s gaze on me. Focus on my work. Rub up. Rub down. Listen to the squeak of the hair. Look up. He’s still watching me, a small smile forming (amusement? Affection? Why?).

Nestle the violin against my shoulder. Pretend to tune it. Try to ignore John (clearly my transport hasn’t gotten message—we’re on a case, John, for God’s sake, try to be a little more professional). Not working. I prepared to glare at him but any attempts to summon indignation wither under his gaze. Oh.

“What?” It comes out a lot more hoarsely than I intended.

“Nothing, just…” He shrugs, bashfully. “You.”

“Me.”

“Yeah.”

I stare at him, mind racing. It’s times like these I wish I could read his mind. He’s so experienced at schooling his face that sometimes he’s very hard to deduce. Is he hinting at something else, or is this a mere comment on observation? The human face is elastic in its capacity for expression; what is he saying to me that I’m not hearing? I want to grab his shoulders and shake him. Tell me you love me! Tell me I’m not the only one who’s feeling this!

Set the bow to the strings. Begin to play. A melody that I’m making up as I go along (composing has always helped my thinking process). Composing reflects my subconscious thoughts and desires—Irene. John’s wedding (chest tightens at the memory). And now… what should I think of him now? He’s still watching, out of the corner of his eye (picked up his laptop to make it look less obvious). A thought. I set the violin aside and grab my phone.

Can you get ahold of the bank manager? Bring him too if you would. SH

Lestrade’s response; I can practically hear the exasperation.

Why?

He knows about the bank, obviously. SH

I’ll see what I can do.

I wonder if he and Molly are at dinner yet. Resume playing, overly aware of John’s gaze. It gives me a sort of thrill that he finds me so engaging, God knows I’ve stared at him for inordinate amounts of time (know the structure of his face from any angle in any light).

“Hm,” says John sometime later. He shakes out the paper, clears his throat. “Lovely. That. What is it?”

A thrill of pleasure in my brain, like tiny flowers blooming. “Composing.”

“Well, it’s very pretty.” He gives me a sideways glance and smiles. What is he trying to do to me? He folds the newspaper, stands, hands clenching and unclenching. I know the gesture; agitation about something. He meets my eyes and glances away, unsure. “Sherlock. I—“ Stops. Mulls over his words, furrowing his brow. “I was wondering. Are you… um.”

My hands are shaking; I set down my Strad and the bow before I drop them. He steps forward, closing the distance to less than a foot. I’ve never quite seen this look on his face before. I can feel my entire being focus on him, like a magnet to a chunk of iron ore. He tugs at his shirt collar (the blue and white plaid, he wore it when we met) and meets my gaze. The room is buzzing with an electrical current so strong I can feel the hairs of my neck stand on end. “Am I what?” He’s walking towards me (caught between the desire to flee and cross the room to embrace him).

He stops and just studies my face (looking for what? Confirmation? Acceptance?) and I think, fleetingly, that we are in the middle of a case and really shouldn’t be doing this. Whatever he sees makes his eyes widen minutely. “Oh.” A brief smile. I can’t speak (can feel his warm breath on my neck, it’s making my thoughts go haywire). Very nearly whimper when he reaches over, catches my lapel between his fingertips. He’s not going to, surely—is he?

“Sher—Oh. Wow. I’m sorry, was I interrupting something?”

I snap out of it (what am I doing what am I doing), feeling my face burn yet again and clear my throat, stepping back from John’s magnetic pull to confront Lestrade. He’s clearly just gotten here from his date (nice jacket, hair combed, faint scent of the cologne he only uses on special occasions. Dark speck on his blazer where he spilled something). He looks a little annoyed (hoping to have a night in with Molly?).

“Yes, hello, Lestrade. I hope your date went well. Now, the bank. Um, the… we need to do a stakeout. The thieves will try to strike tonight, and—"

“Whoa. Whoa. Stakeout? Sherlock, I thought… You could have mentioned that earlier! That could take all night.”

“Well, you don’t have anything else going on.” I cock my eyebrow, watching him grind his teeth. Can sense John behind me, retrieving his Sig and pulling on his jacket (his trigger hand was on my lapel. Touching me. Can still feel phantom heat from it). Lestrade sighs in annoyance.

“Yeah. Ok. Well, I did get ahold of the bank manager and fill him in. He’s agreed to meet us the—"

His phone rings and he frowns when he picks it up.

“Yeah. He’s what? Is he alive? Ok, yeah, I’ll be right over.” He hangs up, all business. I sense I’ve lost him. “That was Donovan. Jabez Wilson’s just been shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, but so far!


	5. Red Wallpaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His jacket is soaked with darkening bloodstains from where he’d pressed it on Wilson’s gunshot wound (had he done the same, when he’d found me in Magnusson’s office bleeding to death? I never asked)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some blood and mentions of violence, for those who are sensitive to such things

Jabez Wilson is alive. We arrive at Second to None before the ambulance (there are perks to riding in a police car and knowing every side road) and John helps stabilize his condition. It’s nearly entrancing to watch him in his element. Callused hands strong and sure, stemming bleeding and soothing a partially coherent Wilson. My John, brave and unflinching in the face of terror and pain. The red and blue lights of the ambulance illuminate the store garishly as it finally gets here (I check my phone: 10 minutes. Mr. Wilson should consider relocating his business).

John stands, cleaning the blood from his hands. He radiates quiet authority in these situations. “He was shot from the front, so he must have seen his attacker.”

“I need to see the store room, Lestrade,” I say, already tracking the smear of blood that Wilson left when he crawled to the phone. “I believe he was shot by his assistant, Vincent Spaulding. You’d do well to bring him in for questioning.”

“What—who—“ Lestrade shakes his head, trying to keep up (only needed him for the stakeout, did not anticipate having to explain all the details of a private case to him. Tedious)

“Vincent Spaulding, Wilson’s only employee. Wilson caught him doing something he didn’t want him to see; he panicked and shot him. Stupid. Very stupid. They’re getting desperate.”

“Yeah… ok…” He still sounds uncertain (no time for it now). I bend down to examine the trail of blood better. It ends just inside the storeroom. The light is on; I notice another splatter of blood against the wall that joins with what’s already pooled on the ground. He got a look at his shooter, then (going to assume its Spaulding right now. No one else gets into the storeroom regularly). I stand with my back to the blood-painted wall, orient myself outwards. What did Wilson see? I scan the room.

John pokes his head in. “Sherlock?”

“Shh.” Need quiet. Need to focus. Boxes; some open, packing peanuts strewn across the floor. Shelves packed with odds and ends. A bulletin board on the far wall, photos and papers stabbed into place with pushpins. Another door—must lead out into the alleyway. Think. Concentrate. What’s out of place here? Search the floor. Ah—a cracked tile. “John, help me move these boxes.”

He obeys, and together we haul some especially heavy cardboard boxes off a patch of cracked and misaligned tiles. Yes—this is it, I’m sure of it. I wedge my fingernails in the cracks between two tiles and pull them up with ease. Underneath, loose dirt spills into a deep hole. I grin at John—there are few things more satisfying than having a hypothesis proven right (though I have found a few more in the last couple months). We continue lifting up tiles until we’ve cleared an area around the hole. Spaulding has set up a short ladder in it—must not be that deep, then. A small shovel is wedged between the steps of the ladder. Oh, this is better than I’d hoped. Maybe this evening won’t be a complete waste after all.

“Freak, what are you doing?” Ah, Donovan.

“I assume you’ve secured the perimeter?”

“Yeah, so?”

I treat her to one of my very best eye rolls. She’s especially snippy tonight (mascara faintly smudged around her eyes; crying earlier). “So… you must have found evidence of someone fleeing the shop.”

“Footprints, yeah. I suppose you want to come look.”

“I won’t take long, don’t worry, Sally.” John and I replace the tiles and boxes (new idea; bait Spaulding into breaking into the bank and catch him in the act. Entirely possible he has another way to break in). He might very well try to get in through the shop again but that seems incredibly risky (he did shoot Wilson tonight, getting desperate, why?).

“Sherlock?” John looks puzzled. I love him so, but it’s hard to be patient enough to get him up to speed sometimes.

“Hmm?”

“You wanna just leave the tunnel like that? I mean that’s proof of what you thought they were doing, wouldn’t you want to… I don’t know, block it off or something?”

“That would tip off Spaulding. Need him to come back, finish the job.”

“You want him to break into the bank? Why? Isn’t that what we’re trying to stop happening?”

Back into the alley. Donovan watches, mouth set, as I look over the footprints. Partial set; the dirt is thick enough outside the back door to provide a toe and heel of a man’s shoe. There’s something off. I measure it again, double-checking.

Well, this is interesting.

“John…”

He bends down to get a better look (his proximity creates a flash of warmth throughout my body; suddenly feel the urge to take off my scarf even though it’s a chilly night). 

“What?”

“Spaulding didn’t shoot Wilson. These aren’t his footprints.”

So Spaulding does have an accomplice. A man (size 5 feet, quite short if his gait is any indication) who, if the wound on Wilson is any indication, has some experience wielding a gun but is either unwilling to kill or not interested in finishing the job. He must have shot Wilson and bolted immediately, then, because Wilson had time to crawl to the phone and dial 999. I check the lock of the back door; not jimmied, so either another copy of the keys exists or the man is a skilled lock pick.

After a heated discussion with Lestrade (why does the man insist on making social plans in the middle of cases?) we agree to meet in the bank tomorrow night. Having gotten in touch with Mr. Merriweather, Lestrade’s allowed us access to the basement floors. Tomorrow we can scout out the basements, determine exactly where the tunnel leads in, and prepare to catch Spaulding and his partner in the act. Lestrade tells me he sent officers to Spaulding’s flat; the man wasn’t home (as I suspect, he has a bolt hole. Any half-decent criminal should). It’s nearly half past eleven at this point; no more to be gained tonight. I’ve gathered all the data I can at the moment. Now it’s time to set the trap. I get the location of the hospital Wilson was sent to, and then John and I return home.

John yawns hugely as we get inside; he’s been up all day, not surprised. We barely stopped since Wilson came into our flat this morning, and the only downtime we have gotten today has been… alarmingly emotionally charged (still thinking about what John did this afternoon). His jacket is soaked with darkening bloodstains from where he’d pressed it on Wilson’s gunshot wound (had he done the same, when he’d found me in Magnusson’s office bleeding to death? I never asked). He scowls.

“Let it soak in cold water for a while; that’ll get most of it out.”

“Yeah, I know.” I watch him turn the bathtub faucet on and drop his jacket in. There’s some blood on his shirtsleeves as well since he only cleaned his hands at the store.   
Unbuttoning his shirt, he tosses it in too. Palpitations, shortness of breath (damned unreliable transport) when I see his naked arms, the muscles flexing under tanned skin (less so now with the years of living under the grey London sky). Deltoid, triceps, biceps, still strong even though he hasn’t been in the military in years. His hands (have carefully recorded every detail of how they feel when they’re touching mine), grasping his bottle of cheap store-brand shampoo, pouring some into the icy water, swishing the clothing around. John. Do you know what you do to me?

Arousal (minimal, easily controlled) when he climbs to his feet (muscles shifting under a thin undershirt; I can almost see the outline of where the bullet passed through his shoulder). Realize that I’m frozen in the middle of unwinding my scarf. I hang it on a wall peg, shrug off my coat and hang that as well, settle into my chair. Need to develop a plan of attack for tomorrow (for John? No—focus)

He comes out, forearms shiny with soapy water. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“Hmm. Oh, the shooting. Yes, I suppose it was.”

“He is our—your—client, you know, Sherlock.” He falls awkwardly silent, knowing what I heard. I try not to feel hurt, (only my client, John? You’re part of the work, he’s yours as well. I want everything in my life to be yours) glance up at his face. He’s not meeting my eyes.

“I know. He’s alive, isn’t he? Not important right now, that. There are at least three people with regular access to that tunnel now. Spaulding’s either given someone his keys, or…” I consider. Douglas Berkley. Wilson mentioned he’d been the one to coordinate Wilson’s “job” with the League. Are those his footprints, then?

“Or he made a copy or he can pick a lock,” finishes John. Flash of pride.

“Excellent! And we know this other man is desperate enough to become violent when accidentally caught.”

“So I’ll bring my gun. Lestrade’ll be there too.” He gives me a quick, confident smile (stomach drops, again) and then scratches the back of his neck. “I’m going to go get changed for bed. Be down in a tic to get my clothes out of the tub, if you needed to shower.”

I wave my hand at him. “It’s fine. Showered this morning.”

He nods and heads upstairs and I bury my face in my hands, groaning in frustration. It’s almost as if he enjoys tormenting me (if he even realizes what he’s doing to me). Trying to hide it is becoming nearly impossible—it doesn’t matter if we’re in the middle of a case, there’s a large amount of my mind palace constantly focused on him. I could almost pretend he feels the same way, the way he was acting this afternoon, but it’s impossible to tell (don’t have enough experience in this area). I want to ask him, but I’m terrified of being heartbroken (apt term, that, there really was an ache in my chest for weeks after the wedding) again. Or worse, pitied.

He comes down, adjusting one of his old army t-shirts. Try not to stare at the way his drawstring pants hang off his hips. I hear him pull the plug on the tub, watch him hang the sodden clothing. He shuts the door (getting ready for bed, then)

“Goodnight.” He hesitates, and then reaches over and pats my knee. The gesture is awkward, almost unnatural. My skin is burning where his hand lay (so is my face, but it’s dark so hopefully…) and by the time I unfreeze he’s already gone to his room. I nearly follow him up before realizing he might not like that. Return to my chair, absently rubbing where he touched me.

I check the time. We have a lot to do tomorrow, but I doubt I’ll bother with sleep tonight.


	6. Deeper Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks up at me and suddenly… I see it.

John sleeps fitfully. He lies on his back, scowling and flinching and fighting his nightmares (I can only guess what they’re about at this point; he’s gone through a lot more than the war in the past few years. My fault). He grips at the bedding and pulls up the corners of his top sheet and kicks the blankets off on particularly bad nights. I’ve even heard him fall out of bed a couple times before (heard him stumble into the bathroom, running the tap on full blast to conceal his harsh, sudden tears). Have often considered joining him upstairs, sliding into bed beside him and holding him until the tears stop, until he can sleep without tearing apart his bed and being tormented by his traitorous thoughts. I have my own dreams, some nights, terrifying flashes of memory and sensation and death.

Now his face is gentle and almost soft in the early morning light, caught in the very deep stage of REM sleep—dreamless and peaceful. He sighs a little in his sleep, chest lifting and falling under the blanket. I’ve been sitting on the edge of his bed for the past hour, just watching. I do this sometimes. Maybe he’d be angry if he knew. Maybe not. I don’t know anymore. There was a time I know he’d definitely be furious, but he’s changed from the person I met all those years ago.

He shifts, snuffles against his pillow, rolls onto his side. Right ankle moves within easy grabbing distance. The urge to touch is overwhelming. As the sounds of a London morning begin to echo up and down the street I reach out and loosely grasp his (surprisingly small) ankle through the blanket. He wriggles a bit and blinks awake. I suck in a breath but I don’t move my hand.

“Mm, Sher…?” He buries his face in the pillow and then raises his head, becoming aware (is he going to yell? I would rather get that than the awkward, blustering denial). He lets out a sleepy sigh, squinting in the pale grey light.

“Whtimeisit,” he grumbles, reaching for his clock.

“7:16,” I supply for him, still not releasing his ankle (in a moment of bravery, gently rub the medial malleolus with my thumb).

He hums, struggling up onto his elbows (doesn’t move his foot—a tiny part of me cheers its victory). “Have you been up all night?”

“No.” A lie.

He sighs (doesn’t believe me—he knows too well how I am on a case) and leans forward, giving my hand a small squeeze. Heart begins pounding so hard I’m sure he can see it (look down briefly just in case—only my dressing gown and a thin t-shirt covering my chest). I try to say something; words run dry. He gives me a little smile and slides off the bed.

“Mind if I shower before we head out today?” he asks, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and yawning. My hand is tingling. I finally manage to scrape a sentence together.  
“Of course. I’ll start breakfast, shall I?” If I sound more breathy and stiff than usual he doesn’t comment. When he head downstairs I briefly give in and throw myself down on his bed to inhale the scent of him, nearly becoming lightheaded.

Maybe I should tell him. This is torment.

Later, washed and dressed and properly fed, we return to the bank, where we finally meet Mr. Merriweather, who huffs and looks indignant but eventually caves and takes us to the basements to look around. Sure enough, there’s a tiny alcove, a centuries-old dent in the stone wall that lives under the searching eye of the security cameras.

That’s where we find ourselves that night, in near-total darkness, sitting and waiting. Merriweather kicks up a tedious fuss until Lestrade finally explains why the stakeout is necessary. The fact that his bank has some serious security failings does nothing to improve the manager’s mood. As soon as the bank closes the four of us head downstairs to wait. I’m 99.95% certain Spaulding and his accomplice will strike tonight. They’re running out of time. With Wilson laid up in the hospital and the police stripping Spaulding’s flat, they’ve lost the chance of trying again later. The tunnels are not a secret to those in the area, but if they pose a security threat they’ll be collapsed—which is exactly what I hope will happen after tonight.

John shivers next to me. Cold? It’s slightly clammy and cool down here but then again I have a heavy woolen coat to shield me from the elements. John rubs his hands together.  
“Heh, should’ve brought a pack of cards. How long is this gonna take?”

“You have somewhere better to be?” I shoot back, smiling in spite of myself.

I can’t see him too well but I think he rolls his eyes. “Not really.” He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders. I have an idea. A possibly very destructive, completely disastrous idea. But, this whole week has done a lot to shift my expectations of how John Watson would react to my… advances (is that the right word? I haven’t exactly been flirting outrageously, but then again I have no idea what I’m doing). Well. Now is as good a time as any—I’ve been throwing nearly every self-imposed rule out the window with this case anyways.

“Your hands, John.”

“What about ‘em?” I can sense him turning towards me as he pulls his hands out for my inspection. Without a word I press them together between my own, marveling, again, at the size difference—my hands easily dwarf his. As though an electrical current is running directly from his body to mine I instantly feel a wave of heat travel up my arms and settle into my chest, loosening up my stiff muscles. John is staring down at our joined hands and in the very faint light I can see how wide his eyes are. I wait for him to voice a protest, or pull them away. He does neither. Yes!

“Any better?” I whisper, easing my thumbs lightly into the gap between his hands.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I… yeah.” He looks up at me and suddenly… I see it. Oh God. How long—?

There’s a scraping noise against the far rock wall. Instantly all my senses are on high alert. Lestrade and Merriweather creep closer—the shuffling of Merriweather’s pants against the floor makes me cringe; I’d almost rather have Anderson here, at least he understands some stakeout protocol. Lestrade aims his phone near the rock wall; it illuminates showers of dust starting to pour through the cracks, and suddenly one of the stones is dislodged, followed by a pale hand poking through. Lestrade darkens his phone and from the tunnel beyond I can hear a harsh whisper, “You’ve got the bags, yeah?”

More stones are pulled into the tunnel, widening the hole, and a figure steps through. It isn’t Spaulding (the man who shot Wilson, then, in the dim light his height fits what I estimated). Spaulding’s behind him, the shaky beam of his flashlight bouncing all around the tunnel. The man in front sees us and freezes.

It’s an explosion of shouting and activity, the man stumbles backwards into the tunnel and John leaps after him, followed by Lestrade. Within a few seconds of struggling the two men are subdued. John is half-kneeling on the shorter man’s back, cuffing his hands behind him. Shaking with adrenaline, the sight of him crouched like a predator over the cuffed man only excites me more (no; I’ll figure all this out later. Need to focus now). The short man turns his head so he faces me—I know his face. The brilliant red hair, the pug nose, the bright, clever green eyes.

“Jacob Clay.”

He glares up at me. His revolver is lying next to his thigh; I pick it up; no doubt an analysis of this weapon will reveal it’s exactly the kind that put a bullet in Wilson last night. It’s been recently fired.

“Would you mind getting your pet off my back? I’ve got royal blood in me after all,” he snaps, wriggling under John’s weight. John presses his knee into his spine and Clay grunts in pain.

“I suppose Wilson would recognize you as Douglas Berkley, then?” I ask, ignoring his ridiculous request. John smirks.

Clay shrugs, a difficult gesture when one’s face is being intimately acquainted with the floor. “Was a bit clever, wasn’t it?”

I think briefly. “Almost. Except for your carelessness the other night.”

Clay smiles bitterly. “I used to not be so violent, Mr. Holmes. Ever since you took apart Moriarty’s empire, well, a fellow’s got to do what he can to get by.” Spaulding has stayed resolutely silent, wide-eyed and terrified.

Lestrade looks over at me in surprise at the mention of Moriarty. John and I had dealt with Clay once before, when he was skimming profits from a phony insurance company and funneling them into the man’s criminal empire, but he’d fallen off the grid when Moriarty had “died” with me up at the roof of St. Bart’s. He’s been on Interpol’s high-profile criminal list for years. Lestrade owes me.

“Well. Shall we go get His Highness’s royal carriage so we can shuttle him off to the police station then?” Lestrade asks, smiling smugly. John hauls Clay to his feet. His bright red hair is gritty with tunnel dust. John catches my eye and smiles; he’s high on the excitement of the capture as well. There’s something else there now too, something that he’s finally letting me see. We have a lot to talk about.

Lestrade packs the two into the cop car outside and we’re treated to a litany of Mr. Merriweather’s blustering, endless thanks. I’m very close to making a rude remark just to get him to shut up for a few sweet minutes but whatever I had planned to say dies in my mouth when I feel a small, strong hand slip into mine. John gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze and turns to Lestrade, whose brows are currently attempting to climb into his scalp.

“Thanks for your help, Greg. Sherlock and I are gonna head home, d’you mind?”

Lestrade is desperately trying not to smirk and losing terribly. I could truly care less, because John is holding my hand and probably is the only thing keeping me anchored to the concrete (can barely concentrate enough to keep a stupid grin of my own from forming). “That’s fine, John, you can come by tomorrow. Night, you two.” He throws us a lascivious wink and turns away, already pulling out his phone.

We arrive home (I hardly notice, too busy focusing on John. My John? I think so). He’s looking somewhere between shy and bursting to say something, biting his lip in a way I find extremely endearing. He doesn’t let go of my hand until he goes to lock the door. I stand in the kitchen, feeling disengaged from my environment in a way that almost never happens, longing for his touch again. He hangs up his coat and comes up to me, gripping the lapels of my coat. Wordlessly he unwinds my scarf—I dip my head to allow him to pull it free—and tosses it onto the table. It’s almost like what happened yesterday afternoon, except this time there’s nothing, nothing to interrupt, just John and me and the rest of the night.

“Brilliant.”

“Hmmm.” I reach up to cup his elbows, feel his palms on my chest. Doubtless he can feel my heart attempting to leap out of my chest to get closer to him.

“You are. Brilliant, Sherlock.” He leans up on his toes and oh god oh god oh god his lips press very briefly against mine. I shudder and he huffs a laugh against my mouth, the contact points of his mouth igniting sparks on mine. He falls back on the soles of his feet and I very nearly follow him down, swaying into him. “Whoa there. You ok? Is that ok?” he whispers, catching me.

Our first kiss. He kissed me. “John.” It’s all I can say. It’s all I want to say right now. “John…”

He smiles up at me and says nothing. I lose track of how long we stand there.

It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, amirite? 
> 
> I've noticed ACD seems to name everyone and their brother some variation of "John" so I changed a few names for variety.


	7. Morning After

By the time I wake up, the sky is bright and I can smell something delicious cooking down the hall. I sink back into my mattress, feeling luxuriously content and unable to remember why—

Oh.

John.

John kissed me.

I sit bolt upright, all thoughts of going back to sleep gone in an instant. John is out in the kitchen, cooking breakfast (eggs, beans and those disgusting vegetarian sausages from the smell of it). When I go out there I’ll run into him, and then… what?

He did initiate the kiss last night. Therefore… he… feels the same way about me as I do him? Or am I reading too much into it? Not for the first time, I sincerely wish I had a larger pool of experience from which to draw. I press my hand against my chest, as if that’ll calm my frantic heartbeat. Square my shoulders. Deep breath. Nothing for it but to go out and face him.

I nearly want to chastise myself for how cautious and shy I’m being now. In my own flat, for god’s sake. I peek into the kitchen and sure enough, there he is, frying up the eggs, two places already set at our table (he’s moved my owl pellet dissections into the living room, I see). He turns around and when he sees me he smiles; it seems to light up the room better than the sun could ever hope to. I tentatively return it (good sign?).

“Morning, Sherlock! I hope you’re hungry, because you’ve barely eaten for the past three days and we’ve wrapped up the case. So no excuses.”

No mention of last night. Pushing away the worry threatening to overwhelm, I clear my throat and make my way into the kitchen (did not plan this well). John smiles at me again, and yes, this time the fondness is very clear.

“You ok?” I can’t tell if he’s avoiding bringing it up or he just wants it to remain unsaid. But I need to know. Even if he didn’t… love me… at least I would know, finally. I hate not knowing.

“John… last night… um…”

He turns off the range, sliding the eggs onto two plates already laden with beans and sausage. Licks his lips (arousal? Nerves? Attractive. Focus) and glances down at the food, before meeting my eyes again. “Was it… did you not like it?” He sounds as worried as I feel and in that moment my relief is so palpable my knees almost give out.

“No, I… I did like it. But I just wasn’t expecting… I thought you didn’t—“

“I do!” He blushes, looking for a way to word it. It feels weirdly like the first night at Angelo’s all those years ago. “I do. I know I said otherwise, but I really do… I am interested… sometimes, in men. Mostly in you. Very much in you, in fact, and, um… I just…”

I have nothing to say. I can’t even begin to put into words the breadth and enormity of what I’m feeling right now for this incredible man. I love you I love you I love you.

“Sherlock.” He swallows, looks at me, starts again. “Sherlock… you do know I love you, don’t you?”

“John…”

He plows on, the dam broken. “As in I’m in love with you. And I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sherlock, for all the time I wasted pretending I wasn’t. But I am… so much. I thought it was obvious… I’m sorry.”

“John.”

“What?” Having just poured his heart out, he understandably looks slightly frantic. So I say the only thing that pops into my head.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

It’s even better than the first time. I kiss him and before I realize it his arms are around my shoulders (strong, firm grip, can feel the muscles flex and tighten against my back) and my hands are cupping his face (warm, stubble, skin softened by age that gives gently under my fingers) and even though I’m not an experienced kisser he doesn’t seem to care and I’m learning rather quickly how to optimize oral contact for mutual satisfaction.

“I love you,” I whisper breathlessly between kisses. “I love you.” Kiss his forehead. “I love you.” Kiss his cheeks. “I love you, my John.”

He laughs and kisses me back and presses his forehead to mine. Breathe. Breathe. This is how it could be. This is how it is, between us. Who knew it could be so simple?

My stomach growls and we both freeze in surprise. John laughs, overwhelmed by the moment, and I scowl, embarrassed by the irritating needs of my body—I would rather go on kissing John for the entire day. It’s so new and I’m already craving it like my next hit. John, John, John.

“Let’s eat, then. You have to tell me about how you figured the rest of their plan out, Sherlock,” he teases gently, kissing my cheek again and setting the two plates on the table. I wrap my arms around his waist from behind and nuzzle into his neck. Feel him shiver, smile in response. He does love me.

He reaches around and places a hand in my hair, combing his fingers through the curls. I make a soft, pleased sound against his skin.

“Come on, love. We’ve got time for all that later. You need to eat.”

“Fine,” I pout, releasing him and taking a seat. Even the food tastes better this morning, how is that possible? In spite of the urge I have to wolf down my food and pull John into my lap, I also feel an incredible sense of… calm. As though I’ve been holding my breath for five years and I’ve only just released it. All of the tension, the pining, the agony has finally loosened its grip on me and it’s incredibly liberating.

“So,” I ventured, reaching across the table to hold the hand John isn’t using to feed himself, “what are you going to call it? The case?”

“I was thinking, ‘The Red-Handed League,’ You know, cause they’re were all redheads and we caught them red-handed. I think it’s pretty good.” The look on my face tells him exactly what I think of the name. “Well, fine, you don’t have to like it. It’s not your blog.”

“John, of all the awful names you’ve come up with over the years—“

“Hey—"

“—this is the worst. By far.” 

“Shut up.” He gives my hand a light swat.

“Make me,” I shoot back challengingly, shocked by the words coming out of my own mouth. He cocks an eyebrow in surprise, and then gets a different look on his face. A look that promises a world of new experiences to come.

I can’t wait to get started.


	8. A Short Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blog update by John H. Watson

10 October

A Short Announcement

Sorry for the lack of updates, we’ve been pretty busy as of late. I’ll write up this last case shortly, but I just wanted to mention, for those of you interested, that… well, it’s happened. This morning, in fact.

Sherlock and I… are together.

As a couple, I mean. And I can safely say I’ve never been happier. I can already see the ‘I told you so’ comments from here, so bring them on, I say. I’m not going to hide it any more.

So, yeah. Big announcement, but probably most of you saw this coming anyhow.

Gotta go, His Highness demands my presence.  
Cheers, all!

Dr. John Watson  
Lover of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective  
20 Comments  
_________________________________________________________________  
Technically, speaking, “lover” is an inaccurate description as we’ve yet to engage in sexual intercourse.  
Yet.

Sherlock Holmes 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
SHERLOCK! Not appropriate. People don’t need to know details, love.

John Watson 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Everyone’s no doubt assuming it anyhow.

Sherlock Holmes 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
You assume correct, mate! Congratulations!!! ;)

Bill Murray 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Oh, my boys!! I’m so happy for you!!! I knew you two would figure yourselves out someday!!! I’ll bake a cake.

Mrs Hudson 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Thanks, Mrs. H but you don’t have to do that!

John Watson 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Oh I’ve got a recipe all planned out anyhow dear :)

Mrs Hudson 10 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Guess I won’t be the only one with married ones around here anymore!  
Congratulations to you both!

Mrs Turner 11 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Oh my gosh! Congratulations!! :D <3

Molly Hooper 11 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
OMG FINALLY!!! TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, JOHNNY!!!

Harry Watson 11 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Your abuse of the exclamation mark is truly appalling, Harry.

Sherlock Holmes 11 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Thanks, Harry! Thank you everyone!  
Also thanks again for the cake, Mrs. H.

John Watson 12 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
That’s fantastic, mate!!! We’ll have to celebrate! I’m really happy for you both!

Mike Stamford 12 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Wow I was not expecting this. But I’m glad you’re happy John.

E. Thompson 13 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
WOW! Congrats mate! Bout time you two finally got together!

Jacob Sowersby 13 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Sherlock Holmes can do so much better I’m frankly disappointed

theimprobableone 13 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
*comment deleted*

Harry Watson 13 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Hey, be nice, Harry.

John Watson 13 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
JOHN!! Ted and I are so happy for you!!!! Sending lots of love and good wishes your way, hope you two have many happy years ahead! Big hugs! XOXOXO

Stella and Ted 15 October  
_________________________________________________________________  
Oh good lord.

Sherlock Holmes 15 October  
_________________________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! Hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> My first multi-chapter fanfic, and probably my favorite of my Sherlock fics. The mystery admittedly isn't the best, I tried to stay as close to the original story as possible but it's hard to account for the cultural changes sometimes. Plus, we all know we're not here for the cases.


End file.
